


New can be Good

by mimithereader



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU - Human, BRIEF MENTION OF ABUSE/ALCOHOLISM, Group Therapy, M/M, stisaac - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 16:26:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1353988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimithereader/pseuds/mimithereader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stisaac prompt: Human au group therapy</p>
            </blockquote>





	New can be Good

**Author's Note:**

> I am not trying to offend anyone with this. Triggers for extremely brief mention of abuse, self-harm, and alcoholism. Message me if you feel anything else needs to be warned against.

Isaac is used to this. Used to these stupid, plastic chairs set in a circle. Used to the ridiculous self-titled “big brother” of the ragtag group. Used to this group of drug addicts, people who self-harm, people with eating disorders, abuse victims. All of them victims, really. Victims of the harsh world. But he isn’t used to this boy.

No, this boy in the ridiculous “Let’s settle this like adults” rock-paper-scissors shirt layered under hideous plaid, sitting across from him is definitely new. Isaac doesn’t like the new ones. They are always either completely silent and murdering everyone with their eyes or dramatically regaling everyone one with their so-called tragedy. 

Ben, “big brother” himself, welcomes everyone as they take their customary seats, before turning to the new kid happily.

“Stiles, welcome. I’m Big Brother. Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself?”

“Uh, sorry, did you just refer to yourself as _Big Brother_?” the new kid – Stiles – asks sardonically, amusement and perhaps mischief shining in his eyes.

And, yeah, Isaac might be able to give this kid a chance.

Of course Ben doesn’t even bat an eye and the sarcasm, instead saying he does not need to say anything yet if he is uncomfortable doing so.

Isaac watches Stiles, studies him. He notices how Stiles is constantly moving – shifting in his seat, jiggling his leg, tapping unknown rhythms on his thighs. He plays with the hem of his shirt and repeatedly hides his hands – and those obscenely long fingers- in the cuffs of his plaid shirt before pushing the sleeves to his elbows and repeating the process five minutes later. He bites at his bottom lip, runs his tongue over it, bites it again. Repeat. He looks around, eyes darting from person to person but always with a vague look of boredom. He scans the room with what could be easily mistaken for general disinterest but Isaac thinks it’s more a mix of nervous energy and an inability to focus.

Stiles doesn’t have tattoos. He doesn’t have any visible scars. He doesn’t have weird hair or piercing or anything that signifies a need for attention. Isaac notices that his clothes aren’t form fitting though and wonders if he is here for an eating disorder and is trying to hide it. He could be in here for drugs – he is certainly twitchy enough. He could be hiding scars from abuse, from self-abuse. Isaac doesn’t know.

That’s the thing: rarely can you tell what issues a person struggles with. There are endless possibilities. And Isaac knows just because something isn’t obvious on the surface, just because a person doesn’t wear their wounds visibly, doesn’t mean they aren’t there. People hide their hurt in a million different ways, a million different shades of pain. Everyone observes color differently, no two people see the same color when they envision “red” or “blue” or “green” - and you can never tell someone else’s shade of pain from looking at them. Only when the person lets you in, helps you paint a picture of their pleasure and their agonies can you begin to understand what their color might look like.

~*~*~*~*~

The next week Isaac moves from his usual seat, the only seat he has sat in for the past three and a half years, to claim the one next to Stiles. It causes a big commotion when Mona, the girl who had sat in the seat Isaac stole, throws an honest to God temper tantrum.

Mona isn’t in here for an addiction or an eating disorder or abuse, she is simply a spoiled brat and her parents, upon realizing their failure in caving to their daughter’s every wish, have sent her to group therapy in hopes of it fixing their little problem. But group therapy isn’t magic and as far as Isaac can tell those parents are better off buying her an island and stranding her there.

Isaac almost regrets his decision to move when the tantrum is in full swing, he's about ready to cave, but Stiles looks up and smiles at him and suddenly it’s worth it. 

Screw Mona.

~*~*~*~*~

The week after that Isaac sits next to Stiles once again, Mona thankfully accepting her new position and not going for a repeat performance. Stiles hasn’t said a word to Isaac still, not that Isaac is any better himself, but, hey, it’s been two weeks, so Isaac decides to bite the bullet and introduce himself.

“I’m Isaac, by the way,” he says as if they had been having a conversation.

“Stiles,” the boy responds, looking at him and smiling.

Isaac wants to comment on the name, has wanted to since week one, but he doesn’t because honestly you can never know what will upset someone.

And, for whatever reason, Isaac really doesn’t want to upset him.

~*~*~*~*~

Stiles’s fourth week at group therapy and Big Brother has decided to force everyone to “stand up, walk around, get to know each other.” Isaac and Stiles stand side by side near the table with cookies and lemonade, not interacting with anyone else in the room. Not really interacting with each other, honestly.

Isaac has contented himself with watching Stiles eat cookie after stale cookie when Stiles turns to look up at him suddenly, mouth full, and says, “So what’s wrong with you?”

Of course Big Brother overheard – _of course_ – and he steps over quickly to tell Stiles that isn’t really a question you ask people here, giving a brief not-quite lecture on etiquette and general politeness. Stiles listens patiently, continuing to much on cookies, then looks at Big Brother very seriously and says, “But you know what else is not polite? Eavesdropping.”

Big Brother can’t come up with a response to that and Isaac has to hold back a laugh as he makes a hasty retreat.

Yeah, Isaac kind of likes Stiles.

~*~*~*~*~

The following week Isaac and Stiles sit next to each other and, again, say nothing.

Stiles stops him in the parking lot and apologizes for last week before hopping into the passenger side of a sheriff’s vehicle.

~*~*~*~*~

It’s Stiles’s sixth week here and Isaac is determined to have a conversation. So when Stiles takes his seat next to him, Isaac waits approximately twenty seconds before blurting out, “my dad used to beat the crap out of me.”

And when Stiles snaps his head up to make eye contact, Isaac sort of wants to slap himself for being such a moron.

“Oh,” is the only reply Stiles gives, still staring at him.

And, yeah, Isaac _definitely_ wants to slap himself.

They sit in silence the rest of the session.

~*~*~*~*~

The next week Isaac is still frustrated with himself for not holding an actual conversation, though it was kind of Stiles’s fault, and resolves to get Stiles to talk to him this time.

So, naturally, Isaac asks, “So what’s wrong with you?” as soon as he sits down.

Stiles stares at him for a solid thirty seconds – a long thirty seconds – and Isaac fears he has screwed up again when Stiles smiles brightly at him, laughing a little.

“My mom’s dead,” he replies, smile faltering briefly.

“Oh,” Isaac says and he feels like an idiot because it’s exactly what Stiles had said to him last week, but really he doesn’t know what to say. He tries, “sorry,” and he isn’t quite sure if he is apologizing for the death of Stiles’s mother or the fact that he doesn’t know what to say.

Stiles’s smile returns and he shrugs casually before telling Isaac, “it’s been eight years.”

“Why are you here now?” Isaac asks, his confusion obvious.

Stiles shrugs again, looking away this time.

“My dad just thinks maybe I haven’t dealt with it.”

“Have you?”

Stiles looks back at him before answering.

“I guess not.”

~*~*~*~*~

Stiles’s eighth week is uneventful, Isaac isn’t there.

~*~*~*~*~

Stiles beats Isaac there this week. Isaac sits next to him wondering if they would actually talk this week. They had talked about Stiles’s mother two weeks before but then Isaac had missed a session and wasn’t sure if their progress would be erased.

“I missed you,” Stiles says and Isaac nearly falls out of his chair due to sheer shock. “I mean, uh, we missed you. You know, all of us. As a, uh, group of - ” Stiles cuts himself off, staring at Isaac with his wide doe eyes. He takes a deep breath and tries again. “Last week was boring without you.”

Isaac just smiles.

~*~*~*~*~

Week ten’s session goes by slowly. Mona is whining about something or other for a solid forty minutes and even Big Brother looks about ready to tell her to shut up.

Isaac is stopped by Stiles in the parking lot once again.

“Do you wanna hang out sometime? Tonight?” Stiles asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet nervously before continuing, “my friend is coming over to play some video games later, you wanna join?”

“Sure,” Isaac replies easily, smiling.

Stiles stops bouncing and smiles back at him. “Great! I’ll text you the details!”

Isaac watches Stiles bound into the sheriff’s car and wave at him, wondering how the hell Stiles got his number.

~*~*~*~*~

That night at Stiles’s house Isaac meets Scott. Scott is nice, funny, good at video games, and very very close to Stiles. Isaac can’t help the pang of jealousy he feels when Stiles talks constantly – even when it’s to him too – because he has never been much of a talker around Isaac. And the way Scott and Stiles seem to be always touching is slowly driving Isaac insane. He shouldn’t be jealous, he knows that, but he can’t help it.

At around 10:30 Scott says he needs to leave, says goodbye to Isaac, and hugs Stiles tightly before heading downstairs.

“You need a ride home? Or you could, you know, stay the night. If you want,” Stiles asks in his typical awkward fashion.

Isaac smiles and agrees – how could he not?

They end up playing video games for another two hours or so before Stiles sets his controller down and claims his fingers are going to fall off if they don’t take a break. They lay shoulder to shoulder in Stiles’s bed, staring at the ceiling, for a few minutes before Stiles’s curiosity gets the better of him once again.

“So, do you still live with your dad? After everything?”

Isaac sighs, but answers, “Yeah, he’s getting help, though.”

Stiles nods. “Does he still hit you?”

“Not like he used to. He hasn’t hit me in over a year. He through a bottle at my head a couple months ago, though.” Stiles doesn’t say anything, so Isaac asks, “why do you think you haven’t dealt with your mother’s death yet?”

Stiles is quiet for so long Isaac thinks he may have fallen asleep. Isaac turns onto his side and stares are Stiles who is still staring at his ceiling, very much awake.

“You don’t have to answer,” Isaac adds, feeling guilty suddenly.

Stiles turns onto his side as well, now staring at Isaac, their faces only far enough apart to see each other. Stiles’s hand lays limply in between them and Isaac is tempted to grab it, hold it in his, but he resists, curling his own hands closer to himself.

“My dad took my mother’s death pretty hard. It was slow and painful and it nearly broke him having to watch her in that hospital bed. He started drinking after she died. He was never abusive or anything, never raised a hand to me, but sometimes he would say things.”

“Like what?”

“He’d tell me how much I looked like her a lot of the time and I know it was hard for him to even look at me. It usually took a couple shots of whiskey.” After a couple minutes passed in silence, Stiles barely whispered, “I used to think he blamed me for her death because I was there and he wasn’t.”

“Stiles, I’m sure your dad doesn’t blame you.”

Stiles nodded, sniffling slightly. “I know. I know he doesn’t, but I was so young, you know? I was only eight when she died and it was just like I lost both parents at once because he fell apart. I had to do everything: cook, clean, organize the bills. I was only eight and I had to make all my own meals or I wouldn’t eat. I had to take money from my dad’s wallet and walk to the gas station eleven blocks away to buy bread and milk, he wouldn’t even do the grocery shopping.”

“You had to grow up early – that’s why you never dealt with it.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Stiles said again, breaking off into a quiet sob.

This time Isaac didn’t hesitate in grabbing Stiles’s hand.

“I know I shouldn’t be upset still, and I know my dad still feels so guilty about not being there for me, but I’m still - ” Stiles broke off again, sobbing even harder.

Isaac pulled Stiles close, letting Stiles bury his face in Isaac’s chest.

“You’re mad at him,” Isaac guessed.

Stiles whimpered and Isaac could feel him nodding.

“So, so much.”

“It’s okay, Stiles,” Isaac soother, rubbing a hand down his back. “It’s okay to be mad at him.”

Stiles nodded again, but Isaac could feel his hesitation.

“I had to live with Scott for almost a year when his dad realized what was going on.”

Isaac paused, jealousy flaring up again, but he quickly tamped it down when the boy in his arms continued to shake with sobs.

“It’s good you had someone. It’s good that you and Scott have each other.”

Stiles nodded again, cries quieting minutely. Isaac let Stiles get himself together and agreed to a sandwich when Stiles said he needed food and asked if he wanted something. When Stiles came back upstairs with two plates, Isaac couldn’t help but ask the question he had been wondering all night.

“So, how long have you and Scott been together?”

Stiles laughed, getting bread crumbs on his sheets.

“We’re not _together_ , dude. Scott’s like my brother.”

“Oh,” Isaac said, trying not to let his relief show – and clearly failing when Stiles quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Were you jealous?”

“What? No!”

“Oh.” 

And Isaac noticed Stiles’s crestfallen expression.

“A little, maybe,” he concedes.

“Really?” And God Stiles’s hopeful expression could make anyone fall in love with him just for the sake of sparing his feelings.

“Well, I’ve never really had a relationship,” Isaac said, trying to hint at the idea of a possible relationship without beating Stiles over the head with the idea.

“Oh. Right,” Stiles said, his voice laced with disappointment and _no_ , that’s not what Isaac wanted at all! _Maybe he is reading this all wrong…_

“Did you – did you want me to be jealous?” Isaac asked cautiously.

“ _A little, maybe_ ,” Stiles responded, blatantly mocking him.

Isaac laughed, leaned forward, and pressed their lips together.


End file.
